treasury for its stores. They are always self-conscious.

A man in commerce, where men prey on their kind, must be alive and alert
to what is going on, or while he dreams, his competitor will seize upon
his birthright. And so you see why poets are poor and artists often beg.

And the summing up of this sermonette is that all men are equally rich,
only some thru fate are able to muster their mental legions on the
plains of their being and count them, while others are never able to
do so.

But what think you is necessary before a person can come into full
possession of his subconscious treasures? Well, I'll tell you: It is not
ease, nor prosperity, nor requited love, nor worldly security--not
these.

"You sing well," said the master, impatiently, to his best pupil, "but
you will never sing divinely until you have given your all for love,
and then been neglected and rejected, and scorned and beaten, and left
for dead. Then, if you do not exactly die, you will come back, and when
the world hears your voice it will mistake you for an angel and fall at
your feet."

And the moral is, that as long as you are satisfied and comfortable, you
use only the objective mind and live in the world of sense. But let love
be torn from your grasp and flee as a shadow--living only as a memory in
a haunting sense of loss; let death come and the sky shut down over less
worth in the world; or stupid misunderstanding and crushing defeat grind
you into the dust, then you may arise, forgetting time and space and
self, and take refuge in mansions not made with hands; and find a